


when the world has dealt its cards

by thisismydesignn



Series: wild thoughts [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Age Difference, Dancing, Exhibitionism, M/M, Underage Drinking, Voyeurism, Women's Underwear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 17:33:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10949385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismydesignn/pseuds/thisismydesignn
Summary: Tony Stark has never claimed to be a role model, let alone a good influence. Case in point...





	when the world has dealt its cards

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to keep this as canon-compliant (between Civil War and Spider-Man: Homecoming) as possible, which meant making Peter 16 max, which means...I feel super weird about this, and yet. I did the thing anyway, and I hope at least a few other people enjoy it.
> 
> This is 150% inspired by Tom Holland's Umbrella Lip Sync Battle routine, which, if you haven't seen it...please do yourself a favor and [remedy that](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LqBiycUo_ew). Fic title also taken from "Umbrella," because I couldn't not.

Tony Stark has many regrets. Most of them have names, faces—Steve Rogers, Pepper Potts—but he’d never anticipated that Peter Parker, of all people, would join their ranks.

At least—not like this.

But here he is, sixteen years old, dressed in Tony’s clothes, grinding shamelessly against a man twice his age and Tony would bet every one of his many, many millions of dollars that that isn’t water threatening to spill from the cup in Peter’s hand.

The worst part, though? The worst part is that Tony _can’t look away_.  
  
  


  
Logically, step-by-step, he knows how they ended up here.

“Sir,” F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s disembodied voice echoes through the lab; Peter startles, upsetting the liquid he was meant to be holding steady. “Sorry, Mr. Stark,” he says, but Tony just waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it. What is it, F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”

“There is an event scheduled for the mansion starting at 7 PM tonight. I thought you might want to get ready.”

“Shit,” Tony murmurs, glancing at the time projected on the wall across from them. “Completely forgot.” He looks around at the mess they’ve made and then at Peter, sighing resignedly. “We’ll have to pick this up another day.”

Peter sets the vial in his hand aside, nodding. “No problem. I should get home anyway…” He starts to make his way across the room toward his backpack, but Tony’s voice stops him in his tracks. “I just meant—all of this.” He gestures at the lab. “You can stick around, if you want.” He grins. “In fact, you should. You ever been to a Stark Industries party?”

“I don’t want to be—” Peter starts, and Tony cuts him off before he can finish the sentence. “You won’t be in the way,” he reassures him, “and I guarantee you’ll be more interesting than half the adults in that room. What d’you say?”

Peter stumbles over a few excuses, anxious that the invitation is borne of politeness rather than an actual desire for him to stay, but Tony doesn’t hesitate. Homework? “It’s a Friday.” Should be out patrolling the city? “Even Spider-Man needs a night off. And Vision’s more effective than the rest of us combined, anyway.”

(The one that trips them both up: Aunt May. Peter calls her, and in the middle of his explanation Tony gestures impatiently for Peter to hand him the phone. He lays the charm on thick, knowing full well May isn’t buying a moment of it, as he promises to take care of Peter; in the end, she can’t find a reason to say no. Tony grins as he hands the phone back to Peter. “We’re good to go.”)

Peter grins back, delighted, all nervous energy and barely concealed excitement as Tony examines him carefully. “C’mon, kid,” he says, turning to stride out of the lab. “Let’s get you some clothes.”

“What’s wrong with—” Peter starts to ask, then looks down at himself, the worn-out T-shirt and ragged Converse he’d worn to school that day, and concedes with a shrug, following Tony out. “Do you have anything in my size?”

Tony turns back, sizing him up, still walking, and declares, “I have a feeling I’ve got something that’ll fit.”

He’s right, of course.

Peter combs through his seemingly limitless options with a look of awe, fingers lingering over fabric that costs as much as his aunt’s rent; by the time Tony leaves him to get changed, he’s made up his mind to let the kid keep whatever he chooses, and to get him fitted for a suit or three of his own.  
  
  
  


Fast forward an hour and Peter is shaking hands with some of the biggest names in tech, stumbling over his words in his enthusiasm but impressing them nonetheless. An hour more, two, and Tony’s lost track of Peter altogether in the midst of the crowd that’s come to _party_ , until—

Until he catches sight of him, and the first thing that crosses his mind is _May’s gonna kill me_.

The second thing: _who knew he could_ move _like that?_

Peter’s hips are moving in ways that should, quite frankly, be illegal—Tony cringes inwardly at the word, but still, _still_ he can’t stop staring. He’d promised to keep an eye on him (even though he knows Peter can take care of himself; the kid’s an Avenger, after all), and he feels himself flush (with anger, with something he can’t, doesn’t want to name) as the other man’s hands settle on Peter’s waist, looking like the cat who caught the canary.

Peter, for his part, appears to be in his own world: leaning into the man’s touch, losing himself in the moment, and Tony feels a pang in his chest, wondering how long it’s been since Peter last let himself _let go_. He knows now isn’t the right time—alcohol in his bloodstream, surrounded by strangers—but still a part of him hates to step in.

He watches him a moment longer, still struck by the sight of Peter _dancing_ (how low he can dip, how fluidly his body sways, the confidence in each movement that Tony usually only sees when Peter’s dressed head-to-toe in red and blue); finally he shakes his head to clear it and crosses the room, reaching out to take Peter’s arm. He tries to ignore the way Peter’s eyes light up when he catches sight of Tony, the excited pitch of his voice as he says, “Mr. Stark!” Tony fixes the man behind him with a reproachful stare; he receives a glare in return, but the man doesn’t follow as Tony leads Peter away from the party and into an empty bedroom, hand on the small of his back.

He shuts the door behind them, not stopping to think about it until the lock clicks into place, his eyes meet Peter’s and it suddenly occurs to him—getting him alone was a very, very bad idea.

Peter manages to get in one last sip from the drink in his hand before Tony’s plucking it from his grasp and setting it on a nearby dresser; in the time it takes for him to turn back around, Peter is all over him.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter says once more, but this time, _this time_ his voice is low, almost needy—the kid (and he _is_ just a kid, Tony has to remind himself, hates that he has to remind himself) is pressed up against Tony’s body, hands on his chest, and Tony’s frozen, not wanting to hurt him—physically, emotionally or otherwise.

(He thinks of the first time they met, Peter perched on the edge of his twin bed as he tried to put into words, to explain that he’s _different_ now— _but I can’t tell anybody that, so I’m not_ —thinks of the fact that he, Tony, is the only one who _knows_ his secret, who gave him countless more to keep, and Tony realizes: this isn’t something he can set aside.)

He takes Peter’s wrists in his hands (very carefully ignoring the way he tries to squirm closer, the bulge in his—fuck, _Tony’s_ —trousers unmistakable) and leads him to the bed, sitting him down. “I’ll be back in five minutes. Will you be good?” He winces at his choice of words and tries not to _look_ as Peter flops back on the bed, arms stretched above his head, sliver of skin visible where his shirt has ridden up. Tony takes his sigh as acquiescence and turns toward the door, hoping against hope: _maybe he’ll be asleep by the time I get back._

No such luck.

He ends the party early, offering profuse apologies as he claims _family emergency_ , hoping no one took much notice of him leading the drunk teenager out of the room only minutes earlier. He watches everyone filter out, locks the doors behind them and sighs deeply, scrubbing a hand over his face before returning to Peter—Peter, who is very much awake, and very much waiting for him.

“I should’ve known better,” Tony muses aloud to no one in particular as Peter steps close, too close, once more, arms coming up to wrap around Tony’s neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You’re too smart, too _good_ —I forget that you’re just a teenager—” and he catches sight of the look on Peter’s face and cuts himself off, tilting his chin up so they’re eye-to-eye. “What’s up?”

“I’m—I’m sorry if I embarrassed you out there,” Peter says, sounding closer to sober than Tony anticipated. He’s about to say _it’s not me I’m worried about, or any of those assholes, it’s_ you, but Peter’s still talking so he shuts his mouth and listens. “I thought the drinks might...help.”

“Help?” Tony repeats back to him. “How?”

“Too much input, remember?” Peter says, sounding frustrated, and once again Tony’s thinking back to that first conversation _(“it’s like my senses have been dialed to eleven”),_ and Tony had never before considered—“Oh. _Oh._ ”

Peter nods, cheeks red. “It’s...it happens all the time, now. I _want,_  and it’s like my body can’t differentiate…” He trails off, hesitates. “The booze dulled it, sort of...but also somehow made it worse,” and then he’s moving closer, hips pressed to Tony’s, expression open and desperate but when Tony tries to pull away Peter lets him go, hands falling to his sides, fingers balled into fists.

“I’m not asking you to touch me,” he says, voice, limbs trembling. “I know you can’t. Just...help me? Just this once?” He pauses, then: “I can’t ask anyone else,” and the _need_ in his voice is finally enough to destroy what remains of Tony’s self-control.

Tony takes his hand, not missing the way Peter startles at his touch, and sits him down on the bed once more. He crosses the room to stand near the door, keeping well away from Peter (keeping him well out of reach) and watches him until Peter meets his eyes and doesn’t look away. “If anything— _anything_ —is too much, stop. Tell me to stop. Tell me to fuck off, and we never need to speak of this again.” He waits until Peter nods, then says, “Tell me what you want.”

The noise Peter makes goes straight to his groin. “Everything—anything you can give me.”

Tony shuts his eyes, shuts out the flood of ideas that come to him and asks only the first, knowing the answer before the words pass his lips. “Do you want to touch yourself, Peter?”

Peter doesn’t back down, doesn’t look away as he nods once more, color rising in his cheeks, fingers twisted in the bedsheets at his sides. Tony draws a shuddering breath—doesn’t want to say it, wants nothing more. “Go on, then.” He keeps watching as Peter’s uncertainty fades unmistakably to desire, to disbelief. “Unbutton your pants,” Tony tells him and Peter obeys, seeming grateful to be told what to do. He hesitates before lifting his hips off the bed, tugging the pants down his legs, and Tony sees—

“Are those—” and if Peter had been blushing before, it was nothing compared to now.

He’s got on green lace panties that are barely holding his erection in, a pair Tony had bought for Pepper months ago and never had a chance to give her. They cling to Peter’s skin, leaving nothing to the imagination; one spot near the waistband is dark, wet where beads of pre-come from the head of his dick have soaked through the thin material.

“I—I’m sorry,” Peter stutters, misreading Tony’s silence. “I saw them in your closet, still in the box, and I thought maybe you wouldn’t notice. I was...curious,” and he falls silent, wondering if _this_ is too much, a step too far; he’s looking at Tony expectantly, and right, Tony should probably put his eyes back in his head and reassure Peter that it’s fine, but what comes out instead is, “Have you done this before? Worn…” He gestures vaguely and Peter understands, shaking his head. “I just wanted to...to try it,” he says helplessly, and Tony (god, he needs to learn to shut his mouth, but he can’t not—) asks, “And how do they feel?”

Peter’s expression of surprise lasts only a moment. “Good,” he murmurs; bites his lip and shifts in his seat, “Really good.”

Tony leans back against the door, not even bothering to hide his erection at this point—there’s no way Peter doesn’t know the effect he’s having. “Touch yourself,” he instructs, then amends, “But leave those on.”

He can see the thrill pass over Peter’s face as Peter finally, _finally_ reaches for his cock, fingers wrapping around the base as best he can through the lace and sliding up, then back down, the sensation leaving him gasping. “It’s good, isn’t it?” Tony asks and Peter nods, not letting up as he strokes himself, hips twitching into his touch each time the fabric catches on his cock, the friction at each new angle driving him crazy.

 _This is wrong_ , Tony thinks for the tenth, the hundredth time that night, _so wrong_ , and yet—Peter’s so _eager_ , and Tony’s always loved first times, god help him, and this seems to check at least a few boxes.

He keeps talking.

“Did you want that guy out there?” he asks, watching Peter’s free hand tighten in the sheets. “Did you want him to fuck you?” Peter’s eyes are dark when they meet his, hungry, and nothing could’ve prepared Tony for the words that leave his lips in response. “It wasn’t him I was thinking of.”

Tony has to look away at that, press a hand to the front of his trousers and remind himself to breathe, to keep his hands to himself. There’s that confidence again, that side of Peter that’s so hard to reconcile with the teenager he knows, _knows perfectly well_ he is; Tony knows a thing or two about resisting temptation but more than a bit about giving in, and he’s still thinking about the way Peter’s hips moved as he danced...

Peter’s moan, breathless, needy, _close_ , brings him back to the moment, distracts him from his thoughts. “Mr. Stark...I need…” and Tony’s two steps ahead of him. “Take them off,” he says. “Touch yourself properly,” and as Peter obeys, “And Peter…”

There must be something in Tony’s voice; underwear around his ankles, Peter pauses to look up at him, to listen. Tony’s impressed. “Let yourself feel it,” he continues. “Everything you’re doing, every sensation— _let yourself_ feel all of it.”

Peter’s groan as he wraps a hand around his bare cock tells Tony he’s take his words to heart: _up to eleven_. The slide of skin on skin, fingers of his other hand reaching down to stroke at his balls, his perineum, over his entrance—his hand on his cock speeds up and his eyes don’t leave Tony’s as he brings himself to the edge. It’s like he’s waiting for—for permission, and Tony’s mouth goes dry.

Peter’s hips arch off the bed as Tony licks his lips, voice barely there as he murmurs, “Come.” Louder, steadier: “Come for me, Peter.”

Peter moans long and low as he lets go, ropes of come spurting over his hand, his shirt ( _Tony’s_ shirt), body falling back against the sheets, breathing hard, spent. He’s exhausted, limbs like lead, but he feels—for the first time in longer than he can remember— _content_.

Tony waits a moment before approaching the bed, trying to keep his hands from shaking. He knows he should speak but for once can’t find the words to say; instead he grabs a box of tissues from the dresser and steps around the edge of the bed, taking Peter’s hand gently in one of his own and wiping it clean. He does the same with his thighs, careful to avoid touching Peter’s cock, and Peter smiles up at him, blissed-out, still a bit buzzed, and Tony _knows_ he should’ve known better but it’s hard to regret much when Peter looks more relaxed than Tony’s ever seen him.

He helps Peter sit up and tugs the jacket off his shoulders so he can sleep more comfortably, sidestepping deftly out of the way when Peter reaches for him, well-aware of how hard he himself still is. He ignores Peter’s low noise of discontent and pulls the sheets aside, about to tell him to get some sleep; Peter turns his gaze on Tony instead, a sudden determination sparking in his chest. “Will you kiss me?”

Tony knows he’s playing with fire, but after what just happened—he convinces himself one kiss can’t hurt.

Tony’s hand is heavy on Peter’s knee, Peter’s lips soft as he licks into Tony’s mouth, enjoying the scratch of his beard against his skin. For once Peter behaves, keeping his hands to himself, letting Tony pull away before either of them goes too far. He keeps his eyes shut for a moment as he smiles, lets it sink in; when he opens them, Tony’s still there, watching him carefully. “Thanks.” Tony offers only a smile in return, a kiss pressed to his forehead before he steps back, trying not to notice the way Peter shivers at the loss of his touch. “Get some sleep.”  
  
  
  


The next morning is—it’s awkward, sure, but Peter’s also positive that was the best night’s sleep he’s gotten in six months, and there are pancakes waiting for him in the kitchen, _and_ he’s not hungover (“I didn’t drink as much as you think I did,” he reassures a guilt-ridden Tony three times before giving up), so overall, he thinks that counts as a win.

And they’re, well...they’re okay.

The thing is: messy, fucked up as it is, nothing more happens between them, and nothing actually changes. There are the occasional moments Peter will go silent and blush red to the tips of his ears, remembering something that happened; moments Tony has to excuse himself, to stay out of the kid’s orbit for a minute and remember to _breathe_ , but Tony’s nothing if not a master at deflecting, and Peter’s a quick study.

(Of course, there are also the occasions where—late nights in the lab, working on one project or another, buzzed on energy drinks but still half-asleep—one of them will slip up, usually Peter with a question that’s clearly been weighing on him, and Tony’s always honest; lets Peter talk if he wants to, lets him fall silent if he doesn’t.)

They’ll talk about it properly someday, but in the meantime—  
  
Tony Stark has many regrets. Try as he may, he can’t bring himself to consider Peter Parker one of them.


End file.
